


Arena

by GriffinGreen



Series: Worth Hollow [1]
Category: Changeling: The Lost
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Ichiro of the Twilight, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Slavery, Victor Garza, Victor/Ichiro, Violence, Worth Hollow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 20:58:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GriffinGreen/pseuds/GriffinGreen
Summary: A scene from an Arcadian gladiatorial arena.





	Arena

_Chlotharius._

That was his name here; the name they’d given him, anyway. _Loud Warrior_ , it meant, which made him smile every time.

Today he leaned against the side of the starting gate, deceptively relaxed as a hunting cat, and squinted across the bright sands. Today was a team match, he knew that much, but nothing in the arena or at the opposite gate gave him any clue what they’d be facing.

“Normal strategy?” he murmured to his partner. “I bag ‘em, you tag ‘em?”

Quintus gave him a tight nod without looking at him. He looked nervous – not that he didn’t have reason. Caesar preferred big burly Ogre-types in his gladiator pens. Quintus was the odd one out – fast, and good with those knives of his, but small and fragile. If one of the big guys managed to get his hands on him, it’d be all over. Rumor had it Caesar was trying to trade him away, which might mean a better deal for Quintus -but only if he lived long enough. As long as some dude twice his size didn’t swat him away hard enough to break all his bones.

Wouldn’t happen today though; not in this match-up. Chlotharius was big enough and scary enough to get the other team’s attention focused on him. A few good blows to the head to dizzy someone up, or a wrestling hold to slow ‘em down, and Quintus could move in and take ‘em out, no sweat. “We got this,” Chlotharius said, shooting the other man an encouraging grin. Quintus glanced up at him once, no expression on his face, and went back to looking out at the arena.

Chlotharius shrugged, glancing back into the shadowed interior of the pen until he saw a familiar face. Tacitus. The quiet guy to his loud warrior, he thought with a silent laugh. He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, a dark shock of hair flopping over his face to make him look brooding. One oversized hand, knobbly with muscle and sporting wicked claws, tapped against a permanently-bloodstained bicep; other than that, he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. Why should he? Not his fight.

Chlotharius didn’t dare kiss him; not here, not in front of everyone. For a fleeting moment, though, he was tempted. Why not? This was their last day here; why not make it count?

_No._ His rational mind took over. They’d played it safe all this time; they just needed to make it a little further. A little more.

Instead, he flashed the other Ogre his most winning grin and winked. _One more fight, Taci_ , he thought. _Just one more. Then we’re out of here. You and me and whoever has the balls to run with us_.

Then the bells rang and he and Quintus stepped out into the glaring light.

The crowd roared and he roared right back, grinning and waving as he strode out like the king of the world. He saw a fae woman, impossibly beautiful as a starlit night and with eyes like the moon, and blew her an outrageously exaggerated kiss. The crowd ate it up. “Wave,” he hissed to Quintus without losing his grin, and struck a pose, showing off his muscles to eager approval. “They like you better if you do.” The smaller man ignored him.

Then the other gate went down, and the challengers appeared.

Chlotharius sized them up without taking his apparent attention from the audience. One was giant, even for an Ogre – at least ten feet tall, maybe more, and instead of armor huge swaths of him seemed to be made of solid stone. Strength-wise, they’d probably be matched, and the big guy definitely had the reach advantage – doubly so, as he carried a long pike as tall as himself. That wasn’t going to be fun. Heavy guys tended to be slower, though; if he could trip him up, maybe get the polearm away from him, Quintus could find the gaps in that stone.

The other guy, though… he winced. Smaller, not especially strong or fast looking. Armed with a standard-issue short sword. But his entire body was an ashy black with dull red glowing through the cracks. He was made of magma.

_Oh, that’s great_ , Chlotharius thought indignantly. _Send lava-guy against the dude who fights bare-handed and the kid who has to get in close with his knives_. Despite his fear, part of his mind couldn’t help but admire the tactic. _Brilliant or not, though, this is going to hurt_.

They faced the front and bowed – Quintus and Chlotharius to Caesar, the other two to a fae man they didn’t know. He was round, and his face looked jolly as long as you didn’t look at his eyes. His hat, suit, and beard were all pure white, like a Southern plantation-owner, and Chlotharius dubbed him _Colonel Sanders_ in his mind.

Then the bells rang again.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Chlotharius turned towards his opponents, blocking Quintus from sight. “Whew!” he calls out to the magma man, pitching his voice to reach the stands. “Is it hot in here, or is it just you? Hey, if I throw you into your buddy, are you gonna melt him?” He feinted towards the man, who dodged back – just as well; Tacitus knew a good trick for throwing guys like that, but Chlotharius had never quite mastered it. And he wasn’t eager to lay hands on this dude in any case.

The mountain stirred, rumbling angrily, and the pike came down to point at him. “Easy, Rocky, I was just asking for science,” he called up with a grin. The pike swung low, forcing him to jump; out of the corner of his eye he saw Hotfoot rounding on Quintus, sword low and ready. Quintus was ready for this though, dancing nimbly away, giving every impression of being too scared to engage in real battle. Hell, maybe it was true. _Good_ , Victor thought with satisfaction. _Make them underestimate you. You’re the one they can mop up afterwards. C’mon, focus on me, there’s a good lava guy_. And it worked; a frustrated second later, the magma man turned and shot a blast of fire right at Chlotharius, just as he was ducking another swing of the spear. He ended up flat on his belly – never a good position at the best of times – smelling his own singed hair. _Too close_ , he thought, gasping for breath. _Way too close_.

He scrambled to his feet – another thing Taci was better at than him – and checked his opponents. Big Guy was coming in for a thrust; Hotfoot readying another blast from behind, ready to trap him between them. _Excellent. Just where I want them_.

He was almost, _almost_ quick enough to dodge to the side; his leg flared with pain like a bad sunburn, and sudden bright heat told him his left arm had been slashed. He hoped it wasn’t bad enough to impede movement; there wasn’t time to check. The smart thing to do here would be to keep dodging, circling around, making it harder to be flanked by them again.

Instead, what he did was fling himself bodily onto the shaft of the spear while it was still extended, gripping it tight. 

Big Guy jerked back, pulling Chlotharius with him; he was clearly expecting an attempt to wrest the weapon out of his massive hands, and just as clearly he expected to win such a challenge easily. Instead, Chlotharius just… hung on. “I got your spear,” he sang out tauntingly. “I got your speeee-ar.” He was gratified to hear a few shocked laughs emerge from the crowd; they increased as the Big Guy, befuddled, raised his spear and attempted unsuccessfully to shake off the clinging gladiator.

Laughter wasn’t a common feature of arena fights, but Chlotharius knew the effect it had on a crowd – and today especially it was important that the crowd be fired up, if he and Tacitus were going to have a shot at slipping away. For the next few seconds he treated them to some top-shelf slapstick, the Big Guy whirling him frantically around trying to get him off the spear, Hotfoot alternately trying to calm him down and shooting off blasts of fire that were as likely to go wild or hit his partner as they were to singe Chlotharius. While being spun in a circle he locked eyes with someone in the crowd – didn’t matter who, but he had to make eye contact with _someone_ – and yelled out “YEE-HAW!” like a cowboy in a rodeo. Appreciative cheers were his reward.

_Okay. That was fun, but it’s time to stop playing_. His arms still wrapped around the spear ( _my god, it’s almost as thick as my forearm_ ), he lifted his legs up to wrap around it too. Then with a loud grunt, he tensed his muscles. 

_Wasn’t what you were expecting, huh?_ he thought smugly. _Assumed I’d want to take your spear. Didn’t think I’d try to take it out of play entirely_. He could hear the thick wood splintering as he strained against it; a moment later it cracked in half, sending him crashing to the ground and rolling quickly out of the way.

As the giant screamed in rage he rolled up – not all the way, there wasn’t time for that. Just enough to brace himself, ready himself. The Big Guy stormed towards him, footsteps thudding on the sand, and he waited, praying he wouldn’t feel a blast of fire just before he struck.

He didn’t. The giant reached him, one foot raised, prepared to deliver what would almost certainly be a bone-crunching stomp or kick…

…when Chlotharius swung himself around, enough to gain momentum, enough to propel the heel of his foot full-force into the knee of the giant’s leg still on the ground.

_That’s another thing about big guys_ , a detached part of his mind thought as the giant crashed to the ground. _Their joints tend to be weak. Supporting way too much weight_.

Big Guy was screaming in earnest when he went down. Chlotharius couldn’t tell if he’d broken the knee or just dislocated it, but he supposed it didn’t matter. The giant couldn’t support his own weight on it, and the pain was making him lose focus for a few precious seconds.

And that’s when Quintus, forgotten Quintus, darted forward. His knives flashed, too quick to follow, and suddenly blood spurted from the space in between where the rock of Big Guy’s face ended and the rock of his chest began. It was bright in the sunlight, soaking into the sand, and as the giant began making a few last pitiful burbling sounds Chlotharius looked away, hit suddenly by pity and disgust.

He hated the killing. He’d learned early on not to show it, but he hated it, came back to his own quarters every time to throw up and shudder against Tacitus, once the danger was past and the show was over. He’d always hated the killing.

But God help him, the fighting itself was fun. And it wasn’t over yet.

Hotfoot was spitting curses as blistering as his skin, charging towards the man he’d ignored before. Chlotharius’ foot hurt like hell after kicking what felt like solid stone, but he made himself move between the magma man and Quintus, positioning himself like a linebacker trying to block a runner. His opponent backed up warily, short sword weaving patterns in the air in front of him, and Chlotharius waited. A feint; a dodge. Then circling, sizing each other up again. This guy was better than his partner, despite being smaller – better trained, better disciplined, and smarter. Chlotharius had no doubt he’d noticed his right foot was injured, noticed his left leg and left arm were in pain. They hadn’t slowed him down yet, but they both knew it was only a matter of time.

Hotfoot darted forward, sword coming in low, and Chlotharius jumped back. The movement sent pain shooting up both his legs. _He doesn’t have to beat me_ , he realized. _He just has to wait until the pain slows me down_. From the glint in the other man’s fiery eyes, he knew it too.

Chlotharius took a deep breath. _Well. Fuck it then._ In a sudden burst of speed, he threw himself forward, impaling himself on the other man’s sword.

It hurt – fuck it hurt – but it was worth it to see the surprise and sudden panic on the other man’s face. _And that’s the thing about smart guys_ , he thought, amused despite himself. _They’re never prepared for you to do something absolutely stupid._

In truth, the wound wasn’t that bad, and that was by design. Chlotharius had had opportunity, over the last few years, to become intimately familiar with his own anatomy. The sword passed through him, but missed any major organs. _Caesar will have it healed when we win_ , he told himself _. He’ll have to. Look at the crowd._ The spectators were on their feet, gasping – at his wounds or his audacity, he didn’t know, but he plastered a saucy grin on his face anyway as he pulled himself closer along the sword to his suddenly terrified opponent. _He’ll have it healed, and there’ll still be time to run_.

The magma man turned to run, which Chlotharius counted as a blessing – it meant he didn’t have time to think or to hesitate before grabbing him, one arm going around his throat while the other locked it in place, the man’s struggles jiggling the sword hilt painfully inside him. “Now!” he roared to Quintus.

The magma burned against his body, against his face, painfully hot. _It can be healed_. The panicked man shot a jet of flame at his legs, increasing the pain on the left and searing fresh wounds into the right. _Where the hell is he?_ It felt like the flesh was melting off his arm as it lay across the other man’s windpipe, but his other arm held it in place implacably. _It can be healed_. Slowly, with every heartbeat a fresh agony, he felt his opponent slow and weaken. “Goddammit, _now_ , Quintus!”

And then there was a new pain.

At first it felt like nausea, like the worst stomach flu he’d ever had. It took a long moment after that for the pain to register, the sharp stabbing pain and the sense of something _wrong_.

The pain twisted and his body arched; the magma man pulled away half conscious, stumbling and coughing, and as he fell to his knees he saw Quintus spring over him to bury a knife in the back of the man’s neck. _One knife. Where’s the other one_?

The sand was growing wet beneath him and he looked down, confused, to see the growing puddle of his blood and Quintus’ knife above it, still sticking out of him. _Oh. There_.

He didn’t feel himself fall so much as see it, his line of vision turning sickeningly as he thudded into the sand. Everything seemed too bright and too quiet; the crowd was on its feet, screaming. _Of course they were. Please the crowd, shouts the crowd; they loved my life. Why not my death?_ Quintus was soaking it up, using all the crowd-pleasing moves Chlotharius had tried to teach him. In front of them, Caesar’s face looked dark as a Florida storm, but Colonel Sanders was beaming and nodding, pointing joyously ay Quintus and pumping Caesar’s hand, oblivious to the growing wrath.

_He was getting traded today_. The thought came to him with a sudden lightning surety. _To someone who’d put him back in the arena. Of course he’d kill me. Better than having to fight me later_.

A flood of emotions crossed his mind as sand ground itself into his face. Pity for the young man’s bad choices. Cold admiration for his ploy. Anger – _he never listened to me and Taci. If he had, he’d know I wasn’t gonna be an issue much longer. Hell, maybe he’d be getting out with us today_.

And then, finally, remorseless regret _. You weren’t a bad kid. You did what you had to do. Trouble is, so do I. And there’s only one way for me to live through this_.

The effort of getting back on his feet caused his vision to go black and fuzzy around the edges, and for a moment he was afraid he’d pass out. If he did, he’d never wake up. He forced himself to stay steady. _Don’t think_. Every muscle screamed rebellion as he tried to move it; he ignored it. He’d have time to hurt later, if he lived. _Don’t think. Just move_. 

Before Quintus even had a chance to notice he was up, he surged forward, grabbed the young man’s head, and twisted. Almost hard enough to take the head off; certainly hard enough to turn it all the way around. He dropped the limp body and took a few staggering steps towards the suddenly-silent crowd.

Then it erupted, the screams even wilder than before.

His burned arm hurt so bad it brought tears to his eyes; he ignored them. The violent motion had twisted the knife further inside him; so, too, did the action of raising both hands high over his head. He looked defiantly out at the crowd, no smiles this time, but triumph in his eyes.

It couldn’t last. He could smell his own piss and shit from the wound in his side; even if Caesar made his healing a top priority, it’d be a flip of the coin whether he made it. _Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass?_ he thought to Quintus’s dead body behind him. _If I killed you and still didn’t survive?_

Grey swam in his eyes again and his knees buckled; at this point he didn’t think he could possibly hurt worse than he did, but the impact with the ground proved him wrong. Still he held his hands high; still the crowd screamed his name. He locked eyes with Caesar; the inhuman face was largely unreadable, but through the haze of pain Chlotharius thought he looked… shocked? Maybe approving?

Even the effort of staying on his knees was proving too much, but he wouldn’t let himself put his arms down. _They have to see me as a champion_ , his fading mind thought frantically. _As a legend. That way, I live_.

He could see himself wobbling, see the yellow sand coming up to meet his face, and this time he didn’t feel the impact. _I’m sorry, Taci_ , was his last thought before the blackness overtook him.

*

When he woke up, his first thought was that he was genuinely surprised to be alive.

His second thought was: _Pain_.

It was quiet. The room was full of sunlight (almost certainly artificial) dappling through tree leaves (also artificial) and filtered through sheer white linen drapes. He was laying on something soft. The only sound was a soothing trickle of water; when he turned his head (painfully) to find the source, he saw Claudia wringing out a cloth into a bowl.

He remembered her; one of Caesar’s countless female servants, kept to attend to the fighters. Claudia was so pale she was almost ghostly, and quiet even for an attendant; he’d given up on making friends with her. Stepping over to him, she used the cloth to wash his left leg, the one that had been the worst burned; to his surprise, the water was soothing, as if there were healing magic in it.

He tried to flex his fingers; it hurt. He tried to take a deep breath; that hurt too. Everything hurt. Nothing felt like he was on death’s door anymore, however, and that was good. Probably.

He forced himself to breathe again, then looked up at Claudia. “He decided to let me live, huh?” He meant it to sound joking, but the dry rasp in his voice took all humor out of it.

She was silent for a long time, and he was almost certain she wasn’t going to answer. Then, in a voice so soft it couldn’t carry further than his ears, she murmured, “Mr. Beauregard bought Quintus. They shook hands on it as soon as it looked like he’d won. Then you killed him. Caesar still got the payment, and Mr. Beauregard got nothing. It put you in his good graces.”

She didn’t look at him when she spoke, and with a horrible pang of guilt Chlotharius wondered if she’d been fond of Quintus. _Or she’s just shy_ , he told himself. _She’s probably just shy_.

She cleaned out the cloth again, and came back to dab at his face – he hadn’t realized he was hurt there, but the wonderful cool feeling of the wet cloth, the sudden relief from pain he hadn’t even noticed was there, meant he must have been. Then, even more softly, she spoke again. “And he can’t afford to lose any more fighters right now. Not after what happened.”

He frowned, and it hurt less than it might have thanks to her ministrations. “Quintus, you mean?”

She shook her head. “People… vanished. Escaped, we think.” Chlotharius felt suddenly cold. “Aule, Marcus – a couple of the new guys. They’re saying Tacitus was the ringleader.”

“No,” he breathed.

She nodded. “Caesar’s been searching for them the last couple days while you were out, but…” She shrugs, still not meeting his eyes.

_No_. This was a new pain. _No, he wouldn’t. Not him. Not me_.

He tried to be reasonable, tried to make himself think the correct thoughts. _I wouldn’t want to delay him, to hold him back. I want him to be free. Even if I’m not with him. If he’d asked… if he’d asked me, I’d have told him to go…_

But it didn’t stop the panic fluttering in his throat, didn’t stop the pain twisting in his chest _. He left me. He abandoned me here in hell, he went off and left me and I’m stuck here, I’m alone here and there’s nothing to hold onto now that he’s gone and he_ _ **left me**_ _._

It burned hotter than the magma against his bare skin, hurt worse than the knife twisting in his guts. It felt like betrayal, worse and rawer than Quintus’ could ever be, he could hear himself crying out and oh God, it _hurt_ –

*

He sits bolt upright in bed, panting. _It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare_. Fear and pain replaced by weary anger – _I’m supposed to be getting better at controlling those. Choi says we can. Am I not trying hard enough?_

With a grunt he heaves himself up, his head too full of thoughts and memories, and pads quietly downstairs. He steals one of Nandi’s beers from the fridge, silently promising to pay it back in the morning, and downs half of it in one go.

He’s not Chlotharius anymore, and that’s the important part. He’s Victor Garza, freehold champion. He has a job and a home and friends. He can spend all day fighting if he wants to, and nobody dies. At the end of the day pretty girls heal them up and they can all go out for drinks afterwards and compare technique, and nobody’s dead. And if he ever doesn’t want to fight because he just doesn’t feel like it that day, nobody’s gonna make him.

The beer soothes his mind, though given his constitution he’s pretty sure the effect is more psychological than anything else. Still working on the half-empty can, he makes his way back upstairs.

At the top, he hesitates. Instead of turning right to his own room, he opens the door right in front of him instead and steps in.

Moonlight silvers the features of the man sprawled across the bed, and Victor’s expression softens as he watches him sleep. _Taci_. Or, no, not Taci – he’s Ichiro now. That’s his real name, the name he picked for himself. Not the one _they_ gave him.

It’s weird – in the arena he was a couple years younger than Victor. Now Ichiro’s almost seven years his senior, even though only one year passed on the inside. Still the same bloodstained claws, though. Still the same pretty, broody face.

Setting the can aside, he crawls into bed with him.

The moment Victor touches the other man, his eyes fly open, wide and sudden enough to make Victor wonder what nightmare _he’d_ been having. As soon as he registers who’s next to him, though, his eyelids slump sleepily back down. “Your breath smells like stale beer,” he grumbles as he settles back in. “Don’t you ever brush your teeth?”

“It’s all for you, baby,” Victor teases, and breathes deliberately into the other man’s face, causing Ichiro to gag exaggeratedly and wave a hand in front of his nose.

A moment later, though, he’s snuggling close again, though he does make an effort to tuck his head under Victor’s to avoid the breath. He’s quiet for long enough that Victor thinks he’s gone back to sleep, but then he stirs. “Mmm,” he mutters. “Thanks for not being dead.”

Victor grins, snugging the other man closer. “Howzat?”

The mumbled words are quieter this time, more sleep-filled. “Thought you were dead. For _ten years_.” There’s a plaintive note in the last murmur. “Asshole. Don’t do that.”

Victor laughs softly, a comforting sound from deep in his chest. “Won’t let it happen again,” he promises. Laying a gentle kiss on Ichiro’s forehead, he wraps his arm tight around the other man and drifts happily back to sleep.


End file.
